solorero

[solorero]

samirkotecha​:

-

It was only supposed to be business as usual. Samir had arrived at the café several minutes early, because on time was late. Sat down opposite of Gabrielle and watched Solomon scope the place out rather than attempt small talk with his Horseman. His rigid posture is normal, in both of his roles, a way for him to keep focused. He took the coffee offered, if only to have something to hold while they went over reports. There was no reason to suspect what was coming. Solomon was there, so keen on security on levels Samir aspired to despite his years of training. Then there was the Warden Matriarch herself, their fearless leader, with more experience than both of them combined. If she didn’t suspect anything, what reason did they have to? Still, with the sharp observation possessed between six pairs of eyes, one of them should have seen something coming.

There was no warning, just a quick sting in his neck and darkness. A Power of War may not be expected to have been able to identify all the information offered in the short period given between that sting to his head falling forward to rest on the table. But, an MI5 officer should. As Samir was shaken conscious again, he arose mid thought as if time had simply halted and picked up again. “A needle.” He murmured, eyes only partially open as he sat up, blinking to adjust to the light. One of his hands held the pointed ache on his forehead, the part he assumed made contact with the table. Samir, she’s gone. Solomon came into focus and his words registered immediately after. Immediately his heart rate picked up and he looked to the chair Gabrielle Warden had previously occupied. The mask of a persona he’d spent years perfecting for his role in War had not awoken with him. His first thought was not to appear frightened or feign naive conclusions. Instead, he rose from his chair and swayed ever so slightly from the head rush caused by the movement. “It was a needle or a pin. Where’s the staff?” He asked while he waited for his blood pressure to equalize so he could move without hindrance. Samir had no idea how long Solomon had been awake, if he’d already started looking around for evidence of their Horseman’s presence, or if he’d even gone under to begin with. In the moment, he had to assume they’d both been affected by the same substance. “Did you see Gabrielle go under?” Samir hadn’t. Was she testing them? “We need to look around.” He said aloud, already in motion and taking initiative. Still forgetting Samir the Power should be waiting to follow the Dominion’s lead instead.

All he could focus on was the nightmare associated with the fact that Gabrielle Warden was missing. We need to find the Horseman of War.

He’s up, wobbly and fighting nausea, but up and with a weapon pointed. Gabrielle’s careful location pick avoided any windows, which came in useful now, even if being seen from the outside might have come in handy when their unknown enemies approached and left them unconscious. He ignored the first question, filled away under ‘unexperienced kid is talking, but my mind has way bigger issues right now’. Instead, Solomon began moving around, nudging the vaguely awakening waitress in a manner that’s far from gentle, hitting the nearby restroom door with his shoulder to get it open. “Empty.” He shouted back, returning immediately to find an up and on the move Samir. Maybe something is clicking for him finally. It’s relief that cannot even make a dent in the worry that consumed him, but it was better than having a panicking or useless Power with him. Samir was once again archived away - congratulate him later. Once we have her again. 

“Didn’t see shit. Call a Warden, now!” His hand was firm on the firearm, trigger heavy. Solomon Romero wasn’t afraid to start a massacre in the middle of the city right now, much less if Gabrielle Warden was the cause. The Dominion walked around the space, empty and dead silent, kicking around other staff to find them breathing. Were they in on this? Collateral, anyway. A million scenarios ran in his head, especially as not even a hair of the Horseman was found around. Seconds passed, Sol gone to check every corner of the back of the café, run around the place too, but there wasn’t a single clue left behind, any trail now deadly cold. I stayed down for too long. I did this. When he at last returned, sweat dripping down his skin, wide eyes with small pupils, the man looked properly at the only other qualified person there, considering the options. The chair he’d left on the entrance of the café would somewhat stop anyone coming in, and any of the suspected staff coming out. Then there was Samir.  He could be faking it. His eyes told a different story, but Solomon couldn’t help but go there. “What did you see?” The gun wasn’t pointed at him, but it was certainly not put away. Not quite a threat, but certainly not blind trust. “Her trail is cold. She’s not dead, we’d see something. She didn’t fucking take a stroll to St. John’s either.” If Samir knows nothing, then they have nothing to go off of. 

[solorero]

*makes eye contact with security cameras to assert dominance*

[solorero]

every friend group gang? should include… [x]

[solorero]

where. – a café, westminster.

when. – 8th of july, 2021.

@samirkotecha​

he was the last one to sit down, as always. solomon gave the distant tables a final look, his most serious face at the staff coming their way, and finally unbuttoned his blazer to sit down. there wasn’t a drop of tiredness in him, sharp despite the hour, alert despite the secure location. only once gabrielle warden started talking, did he let his shoulders drop just a smidge, aware that he’s been in this café a million times for meetings with her - most staff faces are recognizable now, and where a warden places her trust, so does he. solomon is preparing a list of safety concerns in his head, which include data on the armory and some suggestions, but the moment he opens his mouth, pain pings on his neck and a burning hot flash brings him crumbling down. 

solomon wishes he could say that he saw shadowy figures. someone dressed in black to the left, a hand on the right, but realistically, he knows it was just the corners of his eyes fading to black as something hit him. on the edge of consciousness, he wonders what is injuring him. it was too localized to be a knock to the head, as it doesn’t throb. it felt different than a taser and other electrical devices. it was certainly not a bullet and he’s certainly not dead. and the feeling on his veins, and sticky on every layer of his skin, is eerily chemical. he wakes up with his arm flat across the table, reaching out to gabrielle, a movement he doesn’t even remember making, but it’s muscle memorised by now - his first instinct, even incapacitated. and yet as he blinks to see his arm, it points to an empty chair. he blinks some more, the heavy feeling fighting the emerging panic, but it’s so damn hard to move. the nausea threatens to come out when he twists his head to find samir still on his seat, head slumped onto the table. “sam-”, his voice drags. i’ve been drugged. this smells like pestilence, is the first conclusion he’s got, but sol’s too busy for conclusions as he moves the hand onto samir’s hair, shaking the other’s head. he takes the few context clues he can as his body unlocks, a little slower than his mind. there’s sweat on him, but it’s dried and elastic; the coffee cups aren’t steaming; one of the waitresses seems to be waking up on the corner of his eye. they weren’t out just a few seconds, not at all. “samir. she’s gone - samir.” his free hand is moving to his hidden gun, not phone, and as more muscles power up, he prepares to run around in search for her. maybe she did this, some sort of test. maybe she’s awake already, washing her face or something. maybe she’s got a gun to the host’s head already. he prefers those to the more unthinkable options.

[solorero]

where. – the manor, cheshire.

when. – 17th of july, 2021.

@labellemadone

it is insanity to place them all under the same old and damp roof. solomon has tolerated it in small moments and annual social events, but to pool all intelligence resources into one isolated house and tell them to make dinner is simply too outlandish, toeing the lines of seditiousness. a truce is temporary, that much recent events have proven, so playing summer camp and, simultaneously, giving other gangs the room to potentially one day hold it against them that they’d helped war find its missing horsemen, is simply a large risk. to let anyone hold something over their head feels like a break in the balance already so shaky from the truce. thus, solomon romero walks into the manor with a purpose, and his sharp eyes do not deviate from it. he is not here to chat with acquaintances, rekindle lost connections and lounge by the pool, but he can use this forced opportunity to try and talk himself into some information. 

his luck did dry out quite early into the weekend, but solomon was built on persistence, even if the missing horsemen looked more and more like a lost cause by the minute. he checked the time once more, putting together the numbers. nine days, eight hours and forty minutes since gabrielle warden vanished from his table. a worried and, frankly, exhausted solomon emerges from the darkness and old wood smell, and into the summer daylight blinding the conservatory, eyes looking up from the watch to the other person there. fuck my fucking life. he stops, much to his own shame right as he notices it, and looks at the open glass door, wondering if he should simply continue ahead and leave onto the outside, avoiding her much as he’s been doing for years now. three seconds pass and a decision is made, a reckless one perhaps, hard to understand by others, let alone himself. “heard about your promotion. congratulations.” old news, and he’s aware of that, but it doesn’t stop him from letting it out as the first bit of conversation he’s had with his blood in quite some time. “trust me, it probably doesn’t get better than that. ya made it, uh?” the man takes a seat, right by the open door, not really looking at the woman in the small room with him. instead, he takes out a cigarette from his silver case, lightning it and then extending a hand with the case to the other. “you want one?” it’s not lost on him how last time he’s offered belladonna something addictive, she clung to it like air. there’s something self-flagellatory in repeating the same mistake but no longer taking responsibility for it. 

[solorero]

—  SELF PARA,  THE  VOTING.

18th of july, 2021. 

solomon. sol. solomon romero. the first vote was met with confusion, but it quickly turned into a sour anger as the cogs began turning behind dark eyes. the concept had its benefits, and that much he could admit: weed out suspicion, stomp on the snakes. realistically, as his faith had proven, they were all creatures of flaw and vengeance, some tactical geniuses tossed into the mix too; even without a grand plan, accusing him could result in a big target being down, even if only for a night and day. as yet as another vote was cast ( not me this time, but really, rita getting rid of the horsemen right now? ridiculous notion. ), the dominion reevaluated his own accusations, expecting to find his own dose of grudges tarnishing all logic, but he’d been careful enough some minutes ago. as much as he wished to see most of those present sweat, wasting time interrogating the wrong people was almost as criminal as his record. such was the hard balance, which some could say he periodically lost, between heart and head. maybe he would have yelled out the most acidic names, the ones whose scar map he could link to, or the one who came from the very same nest as him. and maybe he would have blamed for war the man he’d already been privately accusing of other kinds of treason, who’d left him accidentally wounded, flesh ripe for war’s infection. but this was also the teaching he’d gained through war and especially through gabrielle, so a tongue was bitten without even thinking about it. 

i could have done it. he gloated in silence, on the fourth accusation. he’d helped gabrielle warden with the aftermath of michaela pinkett’s husband - not that they knew of that, oh how he could imagine their bloodthirst if they did. he’s skilled enough to pull something, if anything given the decades of criminal contacts he could hit up to help with the logistics of such an undertaking. but why would he have come up with such a plan all by himself? it would be ruin to try to take over war and the rest within the same week. if they considered that this was war’s doing, then gabrielle asking him to carry out the plan would lead to an obvious ‘yes’. war’s horsemen complicated things. 

no one heard us. solomon had fought the urge to immediately look at kashvi when his name was first said, two guilty ones being accused just days later. their conversation on friday night replayed on his mind, but it was simply impossible that someone had access to it. was his hunger visible to outsiders too? gabrielle knew of it, but he’d always considered her privileged in how much she knew without him saying. as if he’d had a choice. that too was another delusion. 

he grabbed his own knee hard, where a bruise lived, in order to keep him away from the cliffs hedge in his mind, always so damn close to jumping into the water. it was hard to resist it, as dozens of voices pleaded with him from below the sharp rocks, but he knew that to leap would be a choice with no return. your house is full of spies, they watch you from behind the mirror. should have checked behind the garden wall, someone would be out of sight. your camera footage was edited, you should have zoomed into every corner. kashvi was setting you up. gabrielle was setting you up. this was all a set up. he dug into that bright purple bruise with the same strength he’d used to crush a windpipe. 

solomon romero has been a loyal servant of war for twenty two years. he’s seen two horsemen in his life, he’s seen power shifts, power gaps, fresh and old blood, and yet he’s remained. he’s been a dominion for nearly fourteen years, a current seraphim having been a member of war altogether for less time. and yet he’s remained. a fixture just as stable as prehistoric ruins, and yet just as forgotten, left to blend with the weeds. he could be accused of much over the years, and would accept most of it with a smile, but to imply that he was a disloyal soldier was blasphemous. solomon could attack other horsemen, fuck the truce, fuck their lives and ambitions, fuck hierarchy; but if the story included gabrielle warden, it would be foolish to imagine romero doing anything that would risk her safety or her wishes.

i would have never done this to you. he’d nodded at some accusations, laughed at others, whispered in anger at a few, but those of his fellow war members dug a knife deep between his ribs. his own war accusation was reasonable, something he was certain samir understood too. if he’d been alone with gabrielle, he would have indicted himself, call it a fit of madness or a strategic movement. what he would have never considered doing is point a finger at one of his own. this wasn’t pestilence, scarred with snake bites, nor death, made up of theatrical vengeance. for the first time in over two decades, however, solomon realised that this wasn’t famine either. this wasn’t a family in any sort of way, regardless of how he had been treating it. i’m just staff. he’s surrendered half of his life to an agreement that was meant to continuously evolve, and yet has been stagnant, with no intentions to ever change. astrid, liam, domenico. he couldn’t murder them with his eyes, even if they so did try, but the list was burned into his brain with the most painful of sizzles. those very same eyes did linger on his own seraphim ( temporary leaders, but was it really? ) but they wouldn’t fight for him, not like he would have. as the votes were tallied together into the most worthless of lists, solomon checked all the boxes again. posture straighter, breathing controlled, throat clear. his body betrayed him only once, as he got up and finally looked at kashvi singh - something in the depths seemed stricken with excruciating worry. it was a private look, untraceable the moment it was over and he returned to his best acted self, a ruin that’s more solid than any modern wall. “this is a waste of your time.” he’d mumbled it before, but it was put into clear words as he was taken away with three other ones. it was of no avail, but he made damn sure to say it straight to his own horsemen: the children he’d watched grow up, who’d been angels beneath him, virtues with him, seraphim above him. those he’d protected once, just as he protected gabrielle, or warlock. “this is a stupid waste of your time.” he would have bled london dry before he let other gangs even get near one of his own. he’d do it for the ones he disliked the most, and the ones he loved. the sentiment was not mutual, apparently. 

so much for loyalty. so much for a reward. twenty two years of patiently waiting and patiently hoping led to a locked door and the title of original assassin, which he’d once heard with pride, hung over his forehead like the red light of a target. solomon picked a corner of the east gallery the moment the search was done, sitting on the hardwood floor with crossed arms and eyes ahead, sizing the three prisoner companions with a craving of violence. let the night begin.

[solorero]

OSCAR ISAAC A MOST VIOLENT YEAR (2014) dir. J.C. Chandor

[solorero]

where. – their house, hammersmith. 

when. – 16th of july, 2021.

@kashvis​

No amount of blood shed by War’s panicked hands could undo the few minutes that have been replaying in Solomon’s mind. Sweat that had dried on his skin felt sharply cold as something brought him into a melted awakening, all hazy and nauseating. A pristine scene that left no trail. The noise of people on the streets, certainly no longer six in the morning. This is a trained man, whose first instinct was to reach one hand for the gun on his hidden pocket, another in Gabrielle Warden’s direction - but her chair was empty. He reaches for another cigarette, the old one still warm on the ashtray, just as he reaches for his Horsemen in his head. Again and again and again. The first few days were sleepless, a paranoid soldier guilty of losing the one they’d sworn to protect for countless years now. Then he got it all a bit more under control, becoming much more useful in the search for the missing Horsemen than before ( he did always act out heart first, even if his heart was more often made up of unloving emotions than any sort of softness ). The last time he’d gotten involved in the hunt for a Warden had been for naught, though, and the comparison weighed heavy on his chest - but he’d still kicked down every door and face for his maker. He’d used ancient contacts, he’d made promises ( never ones he could not fill, but certainly some that could cost him harsh ), any sort of bargain but it was fruitless. He’d slept eventually, head heavy on Kashvi’s skin, whispers of guilt, sadness, FEAR. War was trembling, and one of its longest serving soldier shook right along with it.

But it has been a week. No sign of Gabrielle, no clue on how or why it had happened at all, and no instructions from her on how to proceed. “See, this is what’s so damn incomprehensible.” The sentence starts without the context which lives in his head, but that’s not a new habit. He sits right on the edge between the living room and the backyard, patio chair engulfed in the warm light from inside, voice drowned by the low sound of music that Sol isn’t picking up on. The pushed back glass doors comply with the summer breeze, not quite comfortable at such hours. “There’s no measures in place. Why wouldn’t there be a plan B? C? The bloody alphabet and back.” They’ll hear you, his mind yells, but the house has been swiped for bugs on the daily, and the closest neighbours are offices, closed and empty. Solomon does ignore the pesky voice on his shoulder more and more these days, preferring to chat with the voice of the one approaching the glass doors. “I’m sure there’s one on her will, I guess, but what the hell happens in shit like this? So fucking reckless.” The criticism feels acidic on his tongue, but it has felt especially venomous in the later years. Eyes gaze up at his partner, staying there for a moment too long as he continuously inhales and exhales sharply, like someone about to open a dam of thoughts, yet no words come out. She knows this. She’s thought it too, we all have. Had the Wardens spoken about this amongst themselves? Had confused Angels whispered the same fear? 

Solomon’s mother used to tell him that a fear would only become real once it was a sound, out into the world. The monsters under his bed were only his foes if he told the world that they existed, and that he was afraid. Her voice warms his brain with every inhale - sin temor, keep all your fear in your head where no one else can hear it. And he’d held it in, every childish scare, but also every atom shaking kind of fear. No, his mother could never forget his face when she was living across the ocean, only listening to him on the telephone ( because he didn’t tell her that ). No, his little sister, the new and accomplished one, would never be more preferred over him ( because he didn’t tell her that ). No, that first bullet hole on his leg couldn’t be the end of his less than two decades worth of life ( because he didn’t tell them that ). No, that hospital trip that told him his life would forever have to adapt couldn’t scare him ( because he didn’t tell them that, and even if he told it to himself, it would have gotten lost in the ringing in his ear ). It was a simple philosophy to get a restless child to sleep, but it has carried him through decades of a thorny life full of paralyzing fears that he refused to turn into reality. After a week of searching, however, it iss time to give that fear a corporeal form, even if it means it can now attack. “What do we do if she’s dead?”

[solorero]

request for you to not be a bitch

request denied

[solorero]

TEXTS: SOL 📱 CEM

Cemile: I think we all will. But I don't think it's wrong.

Cemile: This is too big for it to be.

Cemile: Maybe a bit of both. I've a list of questions, going for a pre-interview now. Gabby wanted to get us out there ASAP and PHM has agreed so...wish me luck?

Solomon: Yum fuckin yum I guess

Solomon: Break a leg. Or theirs if they don't play fair. Not even fair, they should be playing nice uh? Since we're all mates now LOL

Solomon: Call if you need backup 🤣

[solorero]

domenicochambers​:

     Domenico isn’t someone who gets annoyed, though in Solomon’s presence, as the older man tries to poke at an earlier situation, he feels the prickle of it along his nerves. He keeps his focus forward, unwilling to falter as he examines his fellow Dominion based on words, sensations, the bits of his expression Domenico catches in his peripheral. He combs for clues as to what went wrong — and he’s tired of the search, never one to beat around the bush. “Not a thing was out of place. Sometimes, things happen. It’s impossible to prevent every problem. The perimeter was secure enough to leave them with little room to run. Problem solved.” The last word falls heavy, a rock dropped in the water, an audible plop that ripples their surroundings. 

     The snark Solomon delivers in response to Domenico’s bid only furthers his aggravation, fists briefly clenching as a result, and isn’t the other man too old for this? A primary school playground. A secondary school changing room. Children picking at children, trying to find their place, and there’s always those who struggle more than others, who claw at shirts as they try to climb their way over everyone else to prominence. It isn’t earned; there’s no respect to be found in people who stand taller by knocking others down. His feigned courteousness is even more grating and Domenico hates being at odds with those in War, irritated when the animosity is seemingly pulled from thin air. 

     His expression is blank when he stares back at Solomon, browns flickering to his ear when he taps his aid, “It seems I’ve been bothering you. With everything happening, we hardly have the time or space to act like petty children.” His brows lift in a mixture of contained grief and pragmatic interest, “I think it’s in everyone’s best interest it gets squashed now… and since I’m not the one who seems to have a problem…” He’s trailing off, because he doesn’t need to say any more, and they’re in public, at a War event that holds a lot of importance for Remus, so he keeps his voice low, not allowing his gaze to linger on Solomon too long before it scans the ballroom.  

The final word lays heavy like wool on his shoulders, but Solomon lets it sit, for once refusing to indulge himself in a battle of persistence that will get nowhere. Perhaps this was the problem with their friendship, they were both too stuck in their ways. Or perhaps it was because Domenico was the sturdy rock that weathered the storm, and Solomon was the hurricane that kept hitting it expecting for it to never break. Maybe he was just better at knowing when to stop than the older dominion. Maybe he’s been playing me this whole time. Thoughts mix in an untangleable knot that remains at the center of his brain throughout the conversation: it’s paranoid thoughts, fears, mischaracterizations on purpose and by accident, the war of egos that Sol contained himself enough to not have aloud, hurt pride and hurt feelings, all resulting in no answers at all, but in a venomous feeling at the back of his mouth.

He meets the other’s eyes immediately, stealing away as much as possible of the short time Domenico gives him. To his blank expression, Solomon gives subtle anger, brows down in a certain focus, arms crossed with tension. “Ya know what I think? I think ya took long enough.” The volume is low, lower than before even, as he’s still desperately aware of the setting they are in - but the tone has lost some of its petulance, veering downwards to bitterness. More age appropriate, at least. “I don’t buy it. Plain as it. You’re playing confused, and you’ve been playing confused for a while. And don’t try to act like I’m the one with the problem and you’re the victim or somethin’. You’ve got as many with me, I bet.” Hands shift to his pockets, as the dark anger twists in his stomach, and as he holds in expressiveness he quickly shoves back down, mindful of the event. “I don’t buy the quiet mouse gets the cheese bullshit. Fooled me at first, but I see through it now.” He’s tasting treason, that’s what it is. “You wanted to discuss it, there ya have it. My problem with you is that I see right through you right now, and it’s not a good look.”

[solorero]

[solorero]

TEXTS: SOL 📱 CEM

Cemile: I know.

[She's already talked to Saint, already voiced her own speculations but knows it's unwise to continue to do so.]

Cemile: I'm sure Gabby has a plan. There's no way she'd agree otherwise.

[She glances out the window of the moving car, opting to be driven to her interview rather than driving herself.]

Cemile: You want to know what's even madder than that? I'm on my way to an interview at PHM right now.

Solomon: I'll eat my damned metaphorical hat if that's wrong.

Solomon: Oh, shit? Wonder how they're gonna spin that. Woke up and realised the world is built on warfare? Had a revelation after seeing UN peacekeepers carrying HK 416s?

Solomon: Do you know the topics or is it full sink or swim?

[solorero]

lgriffiths​:

For most people the shareholder’s event had begun at a brisk 11AM, but for Liam his day had begun far earlier, starting with the outfitting of a room prepared for a murder. He hates this kind of pre-established death, arranged in a schedule with its very own time card, but all the same it allows Liam a rare opportunity to make the clean up for after a little bit easier. Tarps and plastic sheeting, delicate furniture moved to appropriate sides of the room, windows shaded and the appropriate tools for clean up stowed and ready. The surrounding rooms above, below and neighboring blocked off in availability to keep prying ears from suffering a similar fate. Even a kit for Solomon was in the room, saltines and all, if he needed. 

After parting ways from Kashvi’s company, Liam had slipped out of the ballroom, heading towards the arranged room with no particular urgency. He’d had more than his fair share of encounters cleaning up after people’s messes as War’s reluctant cleaner, but he didn’t particularly care for observing just how the messes came to be. He already had enough of a imaginative subconscious, he didn’t need any more actual memories to all but add to the realism of his dreams. He had plenty enough of that already.

Unease twists in his stomach the closer he ventured to the room; for all the times that he’d had to clean up and tolerate Solomon’s presence, it never got any easier. As he exited the elevator, he carefully began to fold the sleeves of his jacket up, making his way up the empty hallway in relative silence. And then he stood before the door in question, the realization not lost on him how very much this paralleled the first time he’d met the man and subsequently been caught in the maw of War. With a deep measured breath, he palmed a key card against the lock with an unassuming ‘Do Not Disturb’ placard hanging from it, and let himself inside. What he found was an unfortunately still breathing target and a seemingly impatient Solomon Romero. Liam backed his heel against the door, pushing it closed with a click that seemed to echo in the room. He lingered near the door for a moment, taking in the scene. The man was… not in good shape. “…He not talking or something?” He asked after a moment, wanting to ask without outright asking why the fellow was still alive. 

The door opened at last, receiving a quick glance from Solomon who no longer took chances, even in War territory. Last time someone had walked in uninvited, they’d ended up having to stay the night. The hand that had lingered on the holstered gun eased back down at the tall sight of Liam, and the Dominion went back to staring at the near-gone man, holding back the whistling, allowing the expensive room to be awash in the sounds of breathing ( one erratic and wheezing, two very alive but steady ) and the locking of the door. It’s an impenetrable fortress as the killer looked at the target, whose eyes were too closed to meet his: maybe he was gloating in a silent pride, basking on the beauty of his man-made carnage. A task achieved in overmeasure. And yet, there was something rigid in the way he stood, muscles tight like rope and breathing so controlled it was mechanical, in, out, in, out. Unlucky bastard. It repeated in his brain even as Liam spoke, but he can wait, damn him. Unlucky bastard, who didn’t realise that Gabrielle Warden held the bloody city, the bloody country, even a growing chunk of the bloody world in her blood marked hands. Unlucky bastard, who thought War wouldn’t invade and obliterate, who saw them as a distant conflict with smoke rising and no consequences. It was the kind of pity that hit him at times when looking at the primordial enemies of War, new ones as well - they don’t know that they’re fighting a losing fight. It could have been him once, a clueless low level criminal unaware of the minefield London truly was. Oh, how she could have eaten him alive. 

You lucky bastard. 

Solomon turned back as the silence had stretched into a near minute since the other’s question. “Took a moment. That’s not the point, though.” The knife in hand, a clean and shining one, was swirled so that his gloved hand held the deadly blade, black handle turned to the other. He’d switched his mind on the interest for an audience. “Thought I’d ask if you wanted to share a little back alley glory.” It wasn't a test. Sol had done far enough of those, and eventually it was clear that all he had for it was negative marks, so there wasn’t much of a point. Liam was committed enough, or Solomon would blow his head in himself. Instead, it was a genuine acknowledgement of his view on Liam’s luck. To be picked for the winning team, instead of the body bag. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let ya do the hard work and then claim the spoils myself.” It's a nicety, in a way, and Lord, has he not been nice to him lately. “Thought it could be a bit like, uh, dunno, cathartic? Hotel, someone getting in business they shouldn’t, ends up as a problem that needs taking care of. Except big man over here didn’t get a membership out of it.”

[solorero]

kashvis​:

Maybe they should have done it sooner. It’s a sentiment that has echoed through Kashvi these past weeks, and it’s strange as she’s not one for regrets. And yet everything with Solomon seems to be laced with missed opportunity, with uncharacteristic insecurity, with a longing that Kashvi had not allowed herself to answer. Does it matter, though? In the end, here they still stand, even if the road towards it had been sloppy and filled with doubt. She does not ponder on it long, because Solomon is here, in front of her, with her, voicing her thoughts with his own brusque timbre. 

“Maybe we should have. But we did it now, so it’s all good. We have time to make up for it.” And then there’s a feeling of dread, because did they? Kashvi thinks of Astrid, whose lover had been ripped from her life when there was still supposed to be such a future ahead of them. Solomon is no easy victim, but he is an enemy to many, a worthy foe, someone who would be strategic to knock out if you wished to hurt War in a crucial spot. They don’t need to safeguard each other, with their deadly hands and bloody histories, but Kashvi still wishes she could. ( On another hand, what other hand was there for either of them but a blaze of bloody glory? They would not wither away in an old people’s home. ) So maybe there was a clock ticking, somewhere, a hammer swaying before dropping, a scythe around a corner, waiting, waiting, waiting. Kashvi decides she won’t wait any longer for Solomon, then. There is plenty she cannot control, but this is a ship she can sail, with him on her side.

It isn’t like her to be silent, but she listens to Solomon intently, letting him speak before interrupting. Something in her chest flutters as he does, as he speaks the three words that might be most powerful in the world. It takes her a certain amount of strength to not interrupt him, then, by snaking an arm around his waist and pulling his face to her own. Kashvi lives for love, breathes and fights for it: there’s no without, only bounds and bounds more of it. Something that burns eternally, like Vesta’s flames, something she feeds with great care and hopes to see grow forevermore. When he’s done speaking, she does not answer verbally at first: there’s just the familiar lean forwards, their matched heights making the gap between them easily bridged. It’s a deep kiss, one that feels like homecoming, that feels like standing on the precipice of something larger.

When she pulls back from the kiss, she hums a little, “I do love you,” she confirms, if only because she wants to repeat the sentiment. “I think girlfriend and boyfriend does not begin to summise what this is, you’re right. Partners, that’s good. We can say that we’re together.” She continues to linger close to him, fingers coiling through his hair, curls around her fingers. “I don’t think I much care for words, because deep down I’m certain of what this all is,” she says, “And what I know is that I want to be with you, as I have been.” There’s a momentary pause, but Kashvi is tired of her hesitation. “I could stop looking for places. Not that I’ve been looking very hard.” If they’re having this conversation anyway, why not push it further? Her dread coils in her stomach. Time trickles down the hourglass. When has she ever been a creature of doubt, anyway? “If we’re taking these steps, then me moving out would just feel like taking one back, wouldn’t it? Unless …” She shrugs. Unless he wants his place to himself: she has no intention to intrude, but this does not feel like intrusion. Kashvi dares to think of forever, however long that might be, dares to think of Solomon becoming an even more permanent fixture in her life. 

“I want to go forward, only,” she says, “No more lingering, no more leaving things unspoken … If we’re to be together, not just in private, but in front of everyone, I want you completely.” Kashvi’s gaze moves around the kitchen, at the place that feels partly hers already. “I could move in fully. We could find another place, too, I don’t mind. But I think you put it quite eloquently: you’re ingrained.” There was no cutting Solomon out of her heart now: he was part of her, engraved on the walls of the four chambers of that very organ. “I want to wake next to you each morning.”

We have time. It’s clear as water now, with all the distance. Have I finally stopped being foolish? Solomon did always wait for a certain click that would put his brain in the right place, no more fighting winless fights and chasing the kind of adrenaline that only ends in bruise - to grow, so to speak. In his disorganized brain flow memories of Kashvi over the years, mutating as he too did: old smiles he can’t remember the cause for; target competitions he’d often win; the first drink after work at a bar that has been closed for years now; first dinner party at her place, Solomon? He’s a friend from work. There was a green suit once, maybe in 2017, as she stopped before a conference room to trade a quick few words with the security man by the door - or maybe he’d been the one to talk to her. No, that was 2016, early summer. They’ve been solid for so long, even before kisses, before sex, before love. Sol gets lost in the tangle of memories that he didn’t pay enough mind to as they were happening, FOOLISH, not realising how she was the only path ahead. Crossing glances that sent electricity down his spine, knowing damn well that it was a matter of time before one of them took the missing step. Leaving meetings an extra half-hour after, so that no one saw how his car went in the same direction as hers. Thinking, ‘this was one time, and it won’t happen again’, a few times a week. The mental snapshots show behind his eyes as he unleashes what they truly mean, and Solomon is somewhere between painfully present in the moment, and drunk on emotions, and quick words, and images of her that cannot match the detail of what is in front of him. 

The moment the very last sound leaves his throat, the silence is terrifying. There he is, reckless words and reckless manners, no witnesses but the most important one, and the noise of his breathing is louder than a gunshot inside his ear. It’s the very same kind of adrenaline as the moment after jumping from deadly heights, caught after the act with red hands and red face, and far too late to take anything back, but not yet in the fall. Kashvi breaks the silence with the loudest word of all, her lips on his, fitting as perfectly as it did the first time he realised that it was as if their mouths had been formed to snap in place. One of his hands curls in the space between her jaw and neck, the other holds her back, slowly pushing her in: out of the cliff, right into the fall, with him coming along. 

He makes some sad noise as she pulls back, something weakly hungry. Solomon can’t stop himself from stealing another quick kiss as her lips leave, though. I could stop looking for places. The smile on his lips grows at the idea, even if he hasn’t really considered that Kash might actually leave eventually. “No. No, stay.” No unless, no but. “I mean, were you even really considering going anywhere else? I think you’re pretty stuck here.” He doesn’t know when he started imagining home and seeing her on his couch. Maybe a while ago, in a dreamy fantasy he refused to dedicate much time to. Or whenever she stayed over and it felt violently cold to watch her collect her belongings and drive off. Or when he got a key to her house, dangling on his keychain with his own. But now he simply knew he’d return to her shoes in the hallway, her face in the backyard, or at least her dog on his couch. It happened fast, like a fall, like everything they did, but their speed did always work out so why wouldn’t they get lucky again? “I’m an eloquent man.” Drops of laughter fall from his smile, but his eyes are locked on hers, even when they move elsewhere. There is no hiding when he’s this close. “Sounds like we got it figured out.” His hand moves up her face, in a manner so gentle he’s barely even touching her at all, skin grazing up to her cheekbone. “We’re doing this right. Yeah? You want me completely? You’ve got it.” It’s not a lie. Perhaps aspirational, but he’s itching closer and closer to making it the truth. Solomon takes a second before pulling in closer and placing a kiss where he was just touching, and then another closer to her ear, before whispering in. “Thank you.” For pushing me off the cliff. Or for letting me jump. For making me want to jump. For going into the fall with me. Maybe he even thanks her for everything he hasn’t thanked her before, for all he’ll be grateful for eventually, or for being there in this moment. There’s isn’t much thought behind the words, but an overwhelming need to let Kashvi know that she’s the reason, the key, the cataclysm.

[solorero]

SOLOMON’S HOUSE | HAMMERSMITH, LONDON

it had become quite the tradition to hear solomon say he’s selling his place about every four years - a terrible investment plan, but nothing ever seemed to outgrow the novelty for him. that was until 2019, when solomon seemed to at last find somewhere a bit more permanent. this double storey + attic home is nested amongst larger buildings, noted for its dark design and large windows. it includes an annexed garage, with an unfinished storage loft on top. from inside the house, there is access to a vert small backyard. 

GROUND FLOOR. 

+ the hallway and most walls are covered in clusters of art, of various sizes, materials and worth. the open concept living room, informal dining area and kitchen are also full of little pots, ceramics, plants, and small statues, as well as old family pictures. it’s not quite maximalism, but it’s nearing the concept. 

+ while all the objects have been accumulated by sol over the years, this floor’s design was definitely done with the luxury of a hired professional because solomon has heard enough times how simply filling cabinets with things, and leaning frames on the floor against the walls isn’t quite aesthetically pleasing. 

+ the kitchen is extremely equipped, a must, as it is one of the corners that solomon spends the most time in. 

+ a formal dining room exists, but it is usually only occupied when sol goes there to pick a wine and leave. 

+ the backyard is miniscule, but solomon much prefers to go to parks, gardens, gyms or hotels for the amenities one can have in there. instead, it fits only a few lounge furniture pieces and a small table and chairs - it opens directly from the living room. it’s only used for solomon to smoke and, via the large doors, to expand the house area for guests (who are pretty much always the same few, there isn’t that big of a social group here). 

THE FIRST FLOOR. 

+ the main bedroom doesn’t have the professional touch of downstairs, and thus feels a bit more messy, and a bit more personal. it includes an en suite bathroom and a thin walk-in closet. it is truly drowned in sunlight for large portions of the day - the large windows are a big security concern in his mind.

+ there’s a guest room, which really is just usually sol’s mother’s room when she’s visiting. it’s truly not much smaller or nicer than the master bedroom, and just as full of knick-knacks. 

THE ATTIC. 

+ the final staircase leads to the office, which is mostly just where he stores weaponry and some safes. 

THE ANNEX.

+ the garage on the bottom is large, able to fit solomon’s car, motorcycle and two bikes, as well as space for about two other vehicles. parking is also available in front of the house. 

+ via spiral staircases, there is a large and unfinished loft, which solomon said, all the way in 2019, that he had plans to fix up. that never came to fruition, and instead it’s a storage space, also fitted with enough power tools and machines that it’s basically a workshop. there’s unfinished projects littered everywhere, from a half sanded door to a 1960s stereo console with all the wires pulled out. 

MISC.

+ solomon has always lived alone, even when money was tight and he was young. the only exception has been romantical partners, but there haven’t been a lot of those, especially not lasting long enough to live with him. since later APRIL OF 2021, kashvi has lived “temporarily” there, and since MAY, she’s fully moved in. with her comes lola, the dog, and a lot of her own furniture and taste. a lot has been changing in this short span of time. 

+ security is a main concern. the house is equipped with smart security and traditional security measures, as well as custom features like a fortified door and window sensors. 

[solorero]

apollothepark​:

“It just seems such a lazy answer to a fun puzzle.” Apollo said. Solomon was far more of a threat than his sister and Apollo wanted to do him the indignity of ignoring the fact. He wasn’t a big enough ass to purposefully talk to Solomon’s deaf ear but he also wasn’t above thinking about it really hard. It annoyed him that under different circumstances Solomon would have been a friend.

“My pay is fine and also very much not your business. Though your concern for my wallet’s touching. Are you growing emotions over there in War, along with your ammo?”

–

“I was always more of a realistic facts over imagined possibilities kind of man. Like, you don’t need to reinvent the wheel if it already works.” The fundamental differences between the two were obvious, but God, was it entertaining to give some fighting room to someone who could keep up as well. It brought him back to the superficial connections of truce years, when Sol played up charm or arguments, anything to satiate the hollow left by the forced peace - Apollo was an old figure, but no amount of fun could eradicate all the ways Pestilence, and by proxy him, was deserving of War’s ire. “Oh, we’re an emotional lot, ya know this, bruv. Especially right now, uh? Peace and love ‘tween us all.” Solomon held up two fingers in the air, a genuinely amused laughter coming out of him at the same time. “But you’re already used to it, right? With your latest partnership?” Rough shot, bring it down. Rediscovering the balance is tricky, albeit exciting. Sol took a step closer, in something akin to a friendly posture. “Nah, nah, past’s past right? Cheers to that?”